


Swing Low, Sweet Chariot

by Mithen



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Marriage of Convenience, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-21
Updated: 2014-10-21
Packaged: 2018-02-22 01:08:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2488835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mithen/pseuds/Mithen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kerr Avon has avoided being sent to Cygnus Alpha, but finds himself engaged to Servalan instead.  When she sends him to the slave planet of Domo to purchase some entertainment for their wedding (and remind him what happens to people who cross her), he spots a disguised slave in the market and hatches a desperate plan to gain his freedom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Swing Low, Sweet Chariot

**Author's Note:**

> For the Unconventional Courtship Festival, which challenges writers to take a Harlequin romance summary and swap your favorite characters into it. This story is based on the synopsis for "Chained to the Rebel": _Bound in chains, enslaved rebel Roj Blake stands proud in the Domo slave market. As a warrior, he's trained in the art of survival._
> 
> _Alpha computer tech Kerr Avon is betrothed to be married--against his will. Catching sight of the magnificent Blake, he finds a rebellious half plan forming in his mind. Avon can offer this captured rebel freedom in return for his hand in marriage!_
> 
> Alas, Blake absolutely refused to take being enslaved at all seriously and things devolved into snark. As they will.

“You understand, Kerr, that it has taken all my influence to keep you alive after this...debacle.”

“Debacle?” Avon lifted his head and smiled at his father. “Triumph, I should say. That I was betrayed after the feat does not diminish its skill.”

Arbiter Orm Avon gazed stonily back at his wayward son. “You should by all rights be shackled and sent into exile, if not executed outright. However, I have managed to use my not-inconsiderable power to find you an alternative. You, my son, are to be wed.”

Avon choked on an incredulous laugh. _”Wed?”_

His father nodded. “To a woman who is cognizant of the advantages that being allied to our family might present; a woman in a position to pull the necessary strings to have your sentence commuted to house arrest for a few months. After which you shall be married and forge an alliance that will be mutually beneficial to all involved. Supreme Commander Servalan and the Avon family will be a great force together--and you, my son, will make it possible.”

“You’re joking.” Avon laughed, but his father did not seem to find the situation humorous. “A prison planet I might have been able to _escape_ , but Supreme Commander Servalan is--”

“--Not a woman to be trifled with, in any way,” said the Arbiter.

Kerr Avon looked at his father’s face and remembered the rumors about people who had “trifled with” Supreme Commander Servalan. People who had never been heard from again. Avon considered how much his father would like to have that kind of power. He considered his mother, and his brother, and his own chances if he made a break for it now.

Avon managed a brittle smile. “When do I get to meet the blushing bride?”

* * *

The “blushing bride,” it turned out, had him put under house arrest for eight months for his crimes. All things considered, it was getting off lightly; but then, all things considered Avon would rather have been left to rot in prison than marry Servalan. Not that she didn’t have a certain ruthless charm, he was forced to admit after she paid him a social call, her eyes twinkling with a sort of cheerful sadism at his predicament. But life as the husband of a Supreme Commander and probable future President of the Federation was its own kind of prison, and Avon had never wanted anything more than a great deal of money and an equally great amount of anonymity in which to enjoy it. He most certainly had never wanted to be the leverage by which Servalan gained access to the political resources of his family, and the idea of his family being used as bargaining chips for his cooperation was deeply repugnant. No, he wanted to be free of all of them, and after eight long, tedious months with nothing to do but listen to the government-approved newscasts and consider his (distressingly limited) options, he was determined to find a way.

And then his house arrest ended and the wedding preparations began.

* * *

“Smile for the cameras,” murmured Servalan, squeezing his arm, and Avon bared his teeth at the lens. “You could try to look a little less like a caged animal,” she added as the cameraman turned away to talk to the producer. “I’m sure your dear mother and hard-working brother would be...saddened if people thought you were less than enthusiastic at marrying me, _darling_.”

Avon managed something that probably looked like a more genuine smile. At least he hoped so. The “Supreme Wedding Plans” puff piece would be spectacular, no doubt. “I’m _dreadfully_ enthusiastic, dearest,” he cooed. “But I thought we’d already agreed that the place settings would be magenta and not chartreuse?”

“Whatever makes you happy, Avon,” she said, smiling up at him at just the right angle for a flattering camera shot. Flattering for her, at least; Avon suspected he would be all nostril in it.

 _As if I care what I look like in a ridiculous publicity piece about my sham marriage!_ But unless he found a way out--and soon--this was what his life would be from now on: public appearances, status with no actual power. He could adapt--of course he could--but he would rather not be forced to.

Servalan was looking at him, her eyebrows raised. “Avon,” she said, “I had the most wonderful idea. As a symbol of the power of our relationship, I think we should have a dance performed by freed slaves at our wedding.” She looped an arm through his, smiling ingratiatingly. “You could go to Domo--”

“--The slave trading planet.”

“That wicked, wicked place, yes. Purchase four people who can dance, then proclaim them free in honor of our wedding!” Her smile took on just the hint of an edge. “After all, many of the poor slaves there on Domo are completely innocent people who just happened to have made powerful enemies in the wrong place,” she said. “Or even just have family members who defied someone with power. How terribly unfair, don’t you think?”

“And you think it will do me good to see the conditions there firsthand, do you?” Avon said dryly.

“It could do us all good,” Servalan said to the cameras.

“Your sense of symbolism is exquisite,” said Avon.

Servalan cast her eyes downward demurely. “Why, thank you, beloved.”

* * *

“My _dear_ boy, welcome to Domo.”

Avon managed to sidestep politely and deflect the sound kiss the slave trader directed at his cheek. “You must be Verlis. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Servalan told me you were coming, so I prepared a room for you,” Verlis said, leading him down a corridor. “Tomorrow I shall show you the goods so you can start making plans, but for tonight you must rest. I think you’ll find our lodgings quite adequate. Servalan always has,” she simpered with a mischievous look at him: _Oh dear, should I have said that? How naughty of me!_

“I’m certain they’ll be delightful,” Avon said. “Where are they?”

Verlis looped an arm through his and beamed. “You must have dinner with me first, of course.”

The meal was delicious--candied fruits and cured meats of a quality Avon hadn’t tasted in years inside the Domes, all served by young men and women in silver shackles and diaphanous clothing. A lovely girl in sheer veils that left little to the imagination knelt on the floor in a fluid motion, offering him a chilled cup of wine. As she turned away, Avon glimpsed long red welts on her back through the translucent cloth.

“Another helping of the of the _luqsh,_ Avon?”

Avon smiled and turned down the plate of tiny pastries; somehow his appetite was gone.

“If you like, I can have one sent to your room tonight,” murmured Verlis, and Avon realized he was still watching the slave girl with the bruised back. He wasn’t sure whether Servalan was testing his depravity or his integrity, and which was the option which would please her more--and suddenly he couldn’t be bothered to figure it out. He felt weary from the travel and slightly ill from the rich food and strong wine, and so he said his excuses and asked to be shown to his room.

The room was opulent, the bed piled high with silk and the floor lushly carpeted--all the luxuries of home. Avon wondered how many of the slaves shivering in their cells in the desert night had angered Servalan or some other powerful Federation official. Probably as many as had been turned into mutoids. A symbiotic relationship, necessary to keep things running smoothly--unfortunate for the souls in shackles, but Avon wasn’t going to lose any sleep over the fate of strangers. He had his own skin to protect, after all.

The windows let in an appalling amount of moonlight; that was probably the reason he kept tossing and turning all night.

* * *

“She looks quite limber, she’d make a fine dancer for your wedding,” Verlis said as they strolled along the line of pens in which the “goods” had been placed for bidders to get an early look at them, gesturing back to a young woman with long, dark hair. “Or whatever else you might like to use her for, I suppose.”

Avon was growing tired of the woman’s smirk. “I suppose,” he muttered.

“The males are next,” Verlis said. “Mostly a brawny lot, not very built for entertaining.” They paused in front of a pen with a man leaning against the wall, his eyes cast down and shaggy black hair obscuring his face. “We picked this one up in a sweep of the capital just a few days ago. He might be useful if you needed something heavy lifted at the ceremony,” she giggled, falsetto.

Avon wasn’t even sure of that. The man had been stripped naked to the waist, but his body lacked the musculature of a laborer. He stood with his hands manacled in front of him, yet seemed strangely at ease--the stance of a person waiting with purpose. Odd.

And then the man lifted his head and their gazes locked.

He dropped his eyes immediately, but Avon had seen them widen for an instant and he knew he hadn’t been able to hide his reaction either. He risked a look at Verlis, but the slave trader was moving on, apparently oblivious to what was standing in her slave pens. Avon supposed he _was_ disguised--albeit shoddily--and no one else there had consumed a steady diet of news vids for the last eight months.

The man’s hands were clenched now, and his posture had moved from confident and comfortable to tense.

Avon’s mouth was dry and his heart hammering; he looked at the man in the pen and contemplated his options. There were suddenly a lot of them.

He went with the maddest.

“May I have a private audience with this one?” he asked, indicating Blake--for it was him, it had to be.

Verlis turned, surprised. “This one?” She squinted at Avon, confused, then seemed to reach a conclusion: _Ah, so that’s how it is!_ Her smile shifted to a leer. “Certainly, certainly! I can give you thirty minutes in private. But do make sure to leave the manacles on--he’s quite the strong-looking specimen.” She unlocked his manacles from the wall and handed the end of the chain to Avon. “Oh, and as I always tell the customers, for the sake of showing at the auction--try not to leave any marks."

Avon took the end of the chain from her. “Come along then,” he said with a tug, and Blake followed.

Once they were out of earshot of Verlis, he allowed himself to shudder. “Odious woman,” he muttered to himself.

Behind him, he was surprised to hear a soft snort of laughter from Blake.

* * *

“I have a proposition for you,” said Avon as the door to his quarters swung shut.

Blake was looking around the luxurious surroundings, one eyebrow raised. “A proposition? Do I get to choose what gift-wrapping you will use when you deliver me to your fiancee, Avon?”

“You know my name?” Avon added a bit of a sneer to it; Blake was rather too self-assured for someone half-naked and in chains.

“Of course I know the name of Servalan’s fiance,” Blake shot back.

“And I know who you are too, so we’re even,” said Avon.

Blake pressed his lips together and looked annoyed, which gave Avon a small and petty glow of gratification. One which dissipated when Blake said “So what do you have planned? A little sexual humiliation before you call Travis to come pick me up? I assure you that compared to what’s been done to my mind, anything you do to my body will be quite easy to tolerate.”

 _“What?_ I didn’t--” Avon abruptly found himself tired of the verbal cat-and-mouse game. He dropped the chain with a _clink_ on the stone floor and sat down heavily on one of the overstuffed chairs. “Blake. I didn’t bring you here to do any of that. If we can reach an agreement, I’ll free you.”

“You can’t free me.”

“If I win the auction tomorrow, I most certainly can,” snapped Avon. “Legally, my name will be on the--”

“--I mean you can’t free me because I’m already free,” Blake said.

Avon couldn’t help shooting an ironic look at the chains still binding Blake’s hands.

“Legalities,” said Blake, looking almost disappointed at Avon’s obtuseness, which was galling. “My mind and soul are free, and no amount of chains or paperwork can change that. You are far more the slave than I am, Avon.”

He had only said it twice now, but Avon was already tired of the tone in which Blake said his name. “I am no mood to debate philosophy with you, _Blake._ I’m willing to cut you a deal. I’ll free you and help you get off this planet, if you’ll kidnap and marry me.”

For the first time Roj Blake looked less than serenely self-confident; his eyebrows came together and he frowned sharply at Avon. “I’m sorry, could you repeat that? It sounded like you said you wanted to marry me.”

“Not at all. I want _you_ to force me to marry you, after kidnapping me. Servalan couldn’t possibly marry someone who’s been married to her greatest enemy, right? That would be quite the P.R. disaster. Wouldn’t help her career at all.”

“Have you tried saying ‘Excuse me, Supreme Commander Servalan, I’d rather not marry you’?”

Avon rolled his eyes. “Have you tried telling her ‘Please stop sending mutoids to try and kill me’?” He paused. “It’s my family. She could have them sent here. Not that I’m immensely fond of my family, but still...”

“You see, this is _exactly_ what we’re fighting for,” Blake said, revolutionary fervor kindling his voice. “No one should have that kind of power over others. Why, this whole parasitic slavery system, which is officially frowned upon and unofficially used as a threat, is--” He started to make a grand gesture, but it was truncated abruptly by the fact that his hands were still chained together. He blinked at his manacled hands as if he’d forgotten about them. “Anyway, it’s wrong.”

“Look, I would _love_ to spend all day discussing politics with you--”

“--There’s no need to be snide,” Blake said mildly.

“--But I think we are both rather out of options at the moment. If you don’t let me purchase you, I’ll let everyone know who you really are. I’m not keen on such crude threats, but this plan is the only one I’ve got at the moment. I assume your ship is coming to pick you up soon?”

Blake’s mouth tightened. “They should have been here some time ago. Jenna and I got separated, and then a space patrol came by and the _Liberator_ had to break orbit for a time.” He glanced down at his wrist. “And I’ve lost my teleport bracelet, so I’m on my own until they get back and find me.” He glanced at Avon. “Or not entirely on my own, it seems.” He looked at Avon, considering. “Very well, I accept your terms,” he said. “I pretend to kidnap you and ‘compromise your virtue,’ you help me escape and stay uncaptured until the _Liberator_ can find me.”

Avon considered extending his hand for a handshake, but decided it either look condescending or--worse--as if he considered himself and Blake on equal ground. "I need to have some excuse to purchase you," he said instead. "Can you dance?"

"If I can, I don't remember," said Blake.

Avon gritted his teeth. "Can you play an instrument?"

"No."

"Tell jokes? No, never mind answering that one," Avon snapped. "how about singing? Can you sing?"

Blake looked thoughtful. "I think so."

"Excuse me!" came Verlis's unctous voice outside the door. Avon flinched, noticed Blake noticing it, cursed silently to himself. "Your thirty minutes are up, I'm afraid!"

"Well, we'll have to go with that then," Avon said hurriedly, grabbing Blake's chain off the floor.

"I do hope you enjoyed yourself," Verlis smirked as the door opened.

"Quite," Avon said blandly.

* * *

Avon took a sip of his icy drink. It had been a long, hot morning, and he had watched ten different human beings be auctioned off like cattle. He was sweating slightly despite the cool drink and exotic feathered fans being plied by Verlis's slaves. Blake was up next.

When Blake was led to the block, Avon took a moment to truly look at him, examine him like a person considering some goods: after all, Verlis was watching him carefully and knew he was interested in this particular slave, so it was merely in-character to take a long look, right?

It was difficult to get a fix on the man's face with his hair darkened and straightened like that. From the news vids, Avon knew it was usually a rather unruly mass of brown curls. That would suit him better anyway, what with that stubborn jaw. The eyes were a puzzle--right now they were turned inward, almost dreamy and distant, which gave him a sullen look, but Avon had seen them snap with a passionate urgency that transfigured his face. Not into something handsome, for that Roj Blake would never be, but something...compelling. To weaker, easily-led minds, at least.

The overseer prodded him with a stick to make him turn around, pointing out his "strong back muscles." Beside him, Verlis snickered. "Forget the back muscles, he's got quite the lovely arse, doesn't he?"

Avon mumbled something noncommittal into his drink goblet, torn between revulsion and grudging agreement.

"How was he last night?" Verlis asked. "Did he get you off with that lush mouth? Shall we ask him to do it again here and now to double check? Or maybe you'd prefer to be the one on your knees--kinky, but not unheard of, to buy a slave for such practices. You can check that too."

Avon couldn't quite decide if her avid voice felt more like slugs or spiders on his skin. “Can he sing?” he asked abruptly. “Tell him to sing for me.”

“You,” said the auctioneer. “Sing something.”

Blake considered him for a long moment. Then he took a breath and sang:

_”Swing low, sweet chariot,_  
 _Coming for to carry me home;_  
 _Swing low, sweet chariot,_  
 _Coming for to carry me home.”_

It was an archaic style of song, the syntax unfamiliar, but Blake’s voice carried clearly in the sunlit air, sweet and oddly defiant.

"Oh," breathed Verlis, for a brief moment all lechery stripped from her voice. Blake was looking at him as he continued, and Avon considered looking down at the sand, but decided to meet his gaze squarely as he lifted his song above the silks and shackles, toward the infinite blue sky:

_”If you get there before I do,_  
 _Coming for to carry me home,_  
 _Tell all my friends I'm coming too,_  
 _Coming for to--”_

“Yes, thank you, that’s enough,” said Avon quickly, as Blake looked like he was gaining momentum and it seemed safest not to let him continue. “Very well, I bid--” He grimaced thoughtfully, “--twenty vems."

It was an insultingly low price, and for an instant Blake's eyes snapped anger. Avon gave him a bland look-- _Don't get stupid and haggle with me over your value!_ \--and Blake dropped his eyes once more. Another dealer gave an offer of fifty vems, and Avon lazily suggested he might be willing to go as high as eighty. There was sweat crawling down the small of his back, but he yawned as his eighty-vem bid (still smaller than the lowest bid of the day) trudged past the other bidders and was eventually pronounced the winning bid.

“Well,” said Verlis with a dubious look at the Blake, “I suppose he does have a nice singing voice, even if you probably wouldn’t want him out on display.”

Avon walked forward and picked up the chain binding Blake’s manacles. Everything seemed to be going smoothly so far. Now to take some time in private and plan out an “abduction” together, one that--

From behind him, Blake grabbed his wrist and yanked his arm up behind his back hard enough to make him yelp.

“What the _hell_ are you doing?” snarled Avon, voice sharp with pain and alarm as a variety of guards trained weapons on them.

“Do feel free to take a shot if you want to risk killing the Supreme Commander’s betrothed!” cried Blake.

“It’s Blake, you idiots!” yelled Avon at the guards. “Shoot him! Shoot him!”

Blaster fire sizzled past his ear, and he and Blake swore in unison. “All right then,” Blake said through gritted teeth, and bent to sling Avon ignominiously over his shoulder, breaking into a lumbering run.

Jolted and breathless, Avon cursed Blake loudly and sincerely as he was lugged across the courtyard through a hail of blaster fire and then dumped into a speeder.

“Can you hotwire it?” Blake said, picking up a pistol of some sort from the dashboard and taking a couple of shots at the troopers advancing carefully on them.

“I have no idea,” snarled Avon, though he was already doing so while pretending to be cowering.

 _Pinging_ as shots glanced off the side of the speeder. “How’s it going?” Blake said politely.

“I’m winging it!” Avon finally managed to get the wires crossed correctly, and the engine coughed into life.

Blake slammed the speeder into high gear and roared out of the encampment into the desert.

“Do you know how to drive this thing?” Avon yelled over the whine of the gears and the roar of wind.

“I’m winging it!” Blake yelled back as the whole speeder tilted at an improbable angle, skittering down a great dune. Avon closed his eyes and tried to savor his last seconds of life, but discovered it was hard when your mouth was filling with blowing sand.

After a time, things grew more quiet, and the pelting sand ceased. Avon looked over to find that Blake had figured out how to raise a clear plastic bubble over them, and that in addition they were still alive. Both of these facts filled him with exquisite relief.

“Thank you,” said Blake. “Your tech skills seem good, although you make an appallingly useless hostage.”

“My fiancee doesn’t hold my life in the highest regard,” Avon noted.

“Now what?” said Blake.

“There’s a town to the north-east,” Avon said. “They should have someone who can marry us.”

“You’re sure you want to go through with this?” Blake’s voice was tense; he didn’t look at Avon. “You must admit it’s rather a lunatic plan.”

“I thought you approved of those,” Avon said. “Based on the reports--”

“--You really have been paying attention to my actions,” Blake said.

“I haven’t had much else to do, under house arrest for months on end,” Avon snarled. “Trust me, you’re not _that_ fascinating, but you beat watching the dust settle.” A beat of silence. “Yes, I want to go through with it,” he said.

“How do I know I can trust you?”

Avon couldn’t help laughing, although Blake’s expression indicated he hadn’t meant it to be funny. “Well now, I don’t think you can,” he drawled. “But if I were interested in delivering you to my betrothed, it would have been much easier to _not_ stage a madcap escape across the desert, don’t you think?” He looked out at the desert scrolling endlessly by the window and sighed before he could stop himself. “Believe me, I find ensuring my own freedom far more important than denying you yours.”

Silence for a moment. The arid dunes crawled by.

Blake pointed to a long line of dun walls slumped on the far horizon. “That must be your town,” he said. “Let’s see if we can find an officiant.”

“Let’s see if we can find you some clothes first.”

“And a chisel for the manacles,” Blake agreed blithely.

* * *

The City Hall was a woebegone, sand-blasted building; its officiant a wide-eyed young man. “We’d like to get married,” Blake said. He had hastily washed the dye out of hair and was wearing a ridiculously blousy white shirt with intricate embroidery at the open neck and cuffs: “I always wanted to look good at my wedding,” he had said airily when Avon had suggested something less conspicuous.

The officiant gulped and stared at them as Blake dumped a pile of local currency (supplied by Avon) onto his desk. “I’m here to purchase a wedding,” Blake said. “Do you have a vidcam? I know someone who’d very much like to see this ceremony.”

Avon shrugged and looked sullen and uncooperative as the clerk scrambled to find them a camera. “Are we recording?” Blake said with mock-cheerfulness into the lens as he propped it up on the table. “How nice. Hello, Supreme Commander!” he said, waggling his fingers in a cheerful wave. “I’m thinking of you on my wedding day. Say hello, Avon.”

“You’ll never get away with this,” snarled Avon. “Servalan will hunt you down for this insult.”

“You assume she’ll give a damn what happens to the spouse of the mad rebel Blake,” laughed Blake.

“I don’t consent to this,” snapped Avon, but the clerk seemed to be hypnotized by the heap of vems on his desk, and Blake laughed merrily, throwing his head back in a way that was clearly overblown and yet oddly charming.

“Federation law has only the loosest definition of consent, my betrothed--yet another injustice that we fight against. Short of physical resistance, this marriage will be binding--and you care too much about your own skin to try that, don’t you?”

This time Avon’s glare was rather more sincere--yes, he did find self-preservation to be an admirable life goal, but there was no reason to put it quite that way.

“Come now,” said Blake. “Let us be bound in loving matrimony and then broadcast this video as widely as possible.” He took Avon’s hand, and Avon was surprised to find it cold and somewhat clammy. The sensation was oddly reassuring--perhaps Blake was not as sanguine about all this as he seemed--and Avon resisted the sudden irrational impulse to give it a reassuring squeeze.

“Um, yes,” said the clerk, lifting his eyes from his new income. “Following the standard ceremony here on Domo, I must ask you, Roj Blake, if you take this person to be your mate and your helpmeet, your partner in spirit and in flesh, to share the pains and the joys of life together? If so, please say ‘I do.’”

“I do,” said Blake, shooting a wicked smile at the camera.

Avon hardly heard the whole silly ritual get repeated once more. “I..” He paused long enough for Blake’s smile to sour at the edges, then said grudgingly, “I do.”

“Kiss to seal your union,” said the officiant, clearly anxious for them to leave so he could begin to enjoy his new wealth.

“A kiss?” Avon blinked at him.

“Standard wedding protocol.” The clerk wasn’t even looking at them, he was busy filling out paperwork.

Avon grimaced and looked at Blake, and as he did Blake put an arm around his waist and dropped him into a dramatic dip, leaning close. His damp hair smelled of soap and his hand at the small of Avon’s back was ridiculously confident. Caught quite literally off-balance, Avon barely had time to take a breath as Blake lowered his face and--

Didn’t kiss him.

Instead, he waited there a moment, looking at Avon with a conspiratorial smirk, then swooped them both upright again. As he did, Avon realized that the dip had dropped them below the range of the camera, and he quickly assembled a look of icy repugnance and fury as he shoved Blake away, snarling, “Servalan will eradicate you and your rabble, mark my words.”

“And leave you a grieving widower? How sad,” said Blake. He turned back to the camera. “How about it, Supreme Commander? I’ve stolen your husband, and I intend to steal your precious Federation as well. You have my word on it.” With a rakish grin, he turned off the camera. “All right then, I’ll just upload that to a variety of non-Federation channels,” he muttered, tapping at the camera, “That should get the news out quite well indeed.” He tossed a few extra vems at the clerk. “You might want to make yourself scarce,” he said. “This place will be crawling with Federation troopers soon enough.” He took Avon’s hand. “And now you and I will start our honeymoon, sweetheart.”

Avon supposed it was intended to sound leering and threatening, but unfortunately Blake delivered the line with a cheery breeziness that rather undermined the effect. No matter, they were off-camera now anyway.

The clerk swallowed hard and started sweeping up his money. Avon spared a last sentimental look at his former funds as he and Blake exited stage left.

* * *

The desert night was cold and clear, with a slight breeze sighing along the crests of the dunes, lifting golden sand into the brilliant moonlight. The speeder was parked in the shadow of a lone tree that lifted its gnarled branches against a sky blazing with stars. In the distance, some night bird called plaintively, a sweet liquid sound. It was a night of placid beauty, of tranquil wonder.

And Blake and Avon were yelling at each other.

“Do you even _care_ if we get captured, Blake? Because I am _telling_ you, based on the maps I’ve seen and the prevailing weather conditions, the Federation troops will be sweeping in this direction. We should have turned north hours ago--you’re going to get us killed!” Avon sat down on the bonnet of the speeder and crossed his arms, glowering.

“I thought you said you’d hacked the planetary systems to make it look like we were going west. In that case, east is the best direction--or have you overestimated your skills?” Blake jeered, sitting down next to him.

“I haven’t overestimated anything, except perhaps your market value,” retorted Avon. “May I remind you, by the way, that technically I _own_ you?”

He had meant it to sting, but it just sounded silly when he said it, and the disdainful look Blake bestowed on him didn’t help. “You never actually got around to paying for me,” Blake pointed out, “So I wouldn’t go getting all masterful. Besides which, I don’t think you can own someone you’re married to.”

“Ah _ha_ ,” said Avon. “But you didn’t kiss me, and that makes the marriage null and void.”

“Does it really?” said Blake, looking honestly curious.

“I...have no idea,” said Avon, somewhat deflated. “But you can be certain I’ll check just as soon as we’re someplace with computer access, because the last thing I want is to be married to some humorless, self-righteous _bore._ ”

For just a moment, Blake’s eyebrows drew together and he looked hurt. It was remarkably less satisfying than Avon had imagined it would be. Then that wry, lopsided smile tilted his mouth again. “Admit it, Avon,” he said, “Our marriage has been many things, but it hasn’t been a bore.”

Avon didn’t feel like admitting anything at all, so he looked away from Blake and cleared his throat. “Where exactly is that ship of yours, Blake?”

“I’m sure they’ll track me down soon,” Blake said.

“Perhaps they’ve decided to abandon you to your fate,” Avon sniped, then felt something oddly close to regret when a flicker of worry went across Blake’s face, quickly banished.

“I hope they’re all right,” said Blake.

“You should be worrying about yourself, not them,” snapped Avon. He wrapped his arms around himself and stilled a shiver with an effort; the desert night was frigid and cutting.

“Isn’t it amazing?” Blake said. His head was tipped back and he was gazing at the sky, shimmering with light. “Look at them, burning up there as if nothing we do matters at all. In the Domes, you can’t see any of that. We’ll give them back the stars, someday.”

“The stars aren’t yours to give, Blake.” The words should have been sardonic, and instead they sounded almost sad, which was unfortunate. “What was that song you sang?” he added quickly as Blake turned away from the sky to look at him. “That song about the chariot.”

Blake tilted his head, still looking at him. His ridiculous curls were frosted with starlight. “It’s an ancient Earth song, sung by an enslaved people. Not many people remember it. I learned it as a child.” He paused and looked back up at the sky. “I forgot it for a while, but I never will again.”

Avon put his palms down on the still-warm metal. Drummed his fingers briefly. “Why _didn’t_ you kiss me?” he asked. “Back at our--at the wedding.”

Blake stared up at the sky for a while. Then he shrugged. “I don’t like kissing people when they don’t have a choice about it.” He turned his gaze to Avon once more and looked at him for a long, silent time. “I’d rather like to kiss you now, though,” he said. “If you didn’t mind.”

Avon blinked at him.

“May I?” said Blake. He sounded oddly tentative. “I am a firm believer in enthusiastic consent, and so--”

“Oh, for _God’s_ sake,” snarled Avon, and grabbed him by the ludicrous embroidered collar to drag him into a messy and enthusiastic kiss that seemed to involve a lot of jostling and shoving. Surprisingly erotic jostling and shoving, which ended with Blake flat on his back on the speeder bonnet and Avon straddling him. Blake looked surprised and mussed. Avon thought this was a very good look on him.

“I’ve got a list--” Blake said, shifting his hips to roll over and take a turn pinioning Avon, “--A list of things I’ve wanted to do since the moment I saw you.”

Avon bucked his hips and found that he rather enjoyed how immovable Blake was in this position. “I happen to have my own list,” he said, punctuating his words with some aggressive grinding, “And it starts with shagging all that holier-than-thou-righteousness right out of you.”

“Oh does it?” Blake sounded amused. “What a coincidence, because mine started with fucking all that world-weary cynicism right out of you.”

Avon’s mind was racing with retorts and insults, and his body was racing in an entirely different way, and he was either about to deliver an incisive comeback or come hard against Blake’s insistent thigh when events started happening very quickly indeed, and none of them were on either of their lists at all.

First, there was a sudden hum of motors, and about five elite speeders, stealth chase vehicles, appeared on top of the nearest ridge. Blake used the same obscene language as a moment ago but in a decidedly less erotic tone, rolling off Avon and the speeder. But before the speeders could reach them, the air in front of Avon warped and popped, and a woman with curly brown hair dressed in red leather appeared. She was holding a bracelet of some sort in her hand; grabbing Blake’s wrist, she snapped it onto him--and they were gone.

Avon blinked at the blank sand where Blake had been and almost--but not quite--forgot to look relieved and grateful when the troopers pulled up. “Thank goodness,” he managed through the nausea rising in his throat. “You have no idea what I’ve--”

“--oh, my errant betrothed,” purred a familiar voice, and one of the speeders hissed open to disgorge Servalan, dressed in a silver brocade pantsuit and a diamond-studded trilby. “At last I’ve found you.”

“Ah, my dear,” he said, bending to kiss her hand. It smelled of violets and formaldehyde. “I’ve always wanted to be rescued by a dashing heroine.”

“I’ve had _such_ a difficult and painful day,” she murmured, extracting her hand from his. “And I’m afraid it’s going to become even sadder. My beloved fiance: kidnapped, ravished, and murdered by that brute Blake!” A single tear trickled down one pale cheek, and she wiped it away. “It’s terribly tragic.”

“He...didn’t murder me,” Avon said, because it seemed the kind of thing one should make clear.

Servalan tilted her head to the side and gave him a luminous smile. “I’m afraid he did,” she sighed. “Perhaps I shall wear black for a time, and veil my face. But the desolated lover must continue on, you know. For the good of the Federation. Really, Avon,” she said at his expression, “You couldn’t imagine I’d actually be able to keep you around _now_.”

Avon opened his mouth to say something--he didn’t know what, but the troopers were raising their weapons, and he was hoping it would at least be pithy and memorable--when that ringing warping sound happened again, and a face appeared from behind the lone tree: a skinny man with a nervous nose, who waved awkwardly at Servalan. “Um, hello!” he said.

The troopers immediately opened fire on him as he ducked back behind the tree with a nervous squeak. Bark chips flew everywhere.

And something cold clicked around Avon’s wrist.

“You know what?” said Blake’s voice from behind him, “I think I’ll keep him.”

And then the world fell away entirely, with Servalan’s baffled face the last thing Avon saw.

It reassembled itself into some kind of teleportation bay, but Avon barely had time to take it in before he was swiveling to snarl at Blake: “I _told_ you we should have turned north. I _told_ you they’d find us if you kept on the way you insisted on going. You nearly got us both killed!”

“Well,” said the mousy man, stepping down from beside him, “I suppose you married him for his looks, because his personality’s not much to speak of.”

“That’s Vila,” said Blake, nodding at him. “And the woman behind the console is Cally.”

“Also: _I think I’ll keep him_? Really, Blake. Of all the condescending, unmitigated gall--”

“That’s Jenna,” said Blake, indicating a woman leaning against the wall with her arms crossed and her eyebrows raised. “And Gan.”

“Oh no,” said Avon. “We are not doing introductions like I’m going to be part of your merry crew of rogues from now on.”

“We can pretend you’re our hostage until we’re sure your family is safe,” said Blake. He looked at Avon, and his eyes were sad. “Please?”

Avon looked away at the wall for a moment. He remembered the stars laid out in shining obliviousness, looking down on a planet of slavery. He remembered a voice lifted in an long-forgotten hymn to freedom.

He looked back at Blake.

“I get my own quarters,” he snapped. “I’m not settling for half the living space as everyone else just because we happen to be married.”

Relief blazed on Blake’s face, so bright it was almost painful. “Anything you want,” said Blake. Avon heard Vila groan, saw Jenna roll her eyes, and wondered what Blake had said to convince them to turn back and bring Avon his own bracelet. No matter.

“I’ll hold you to that,” Avon said to his husband.


End file.
